Autophony

 What we are is a jigsaw pieces that come together searching for edges that match some we know will never sit: a sideways glance, a crush, a lifelong regret; some we think will last, but no we stick around a while and then we know we are meant for other things, other people, other places but mostly just being othered some of us are corner pieces who know where we are and who will come to find us eventually I can only wish I was that and some of us are that piece that doesn't fit neither color nor shape nor corner we force it sometimes, set it aside for some later unfulfillable hope until it is too late to realise we were left over from another puzzle, with only the longing to fit, to belong, to be included

Very often the sun rises in warm, golden rays on opening buds, birdsong and dewdrops, and the stench of stale death. Very often the sun rises Upon mutilated men - blood drying over their eyes and gore-caked machetes rusting in their abdomens. Very often the sun rises over hyaenas fretting over the carrion going waste - they can eat no more, nor can the vultures. Very often the sun rises on a day already defeated - shrieking, screeching, screaming, demanding that it go back for there was peace in the night. Published in Tranquil Muse 2018.

جو اِن جھُلَستی اُمّیدوں پَر آب خَلاس بَنکَر بَرسینگے کِسی دِن تو فَلَک ظُلم پَر وَہ اَبر اِنقلاب چھاءیں گے جو ظالِموں کے اِن کاذِب میناروں کو بَہا لے جاءییں گے کِسی دِن تو وہ اشک مُلازِم ایک عظیم سیلاب بانیں گے جو بیکَس سونیپَن کو بِکھراکَر صبَح کی ضوء لے آءییں گے کیسی دِن تہ اُمّیدیں خاک سے اُٹھکَر آسماں کو چھوءییں گے جو اِس دِیار خوار کو دولۃ و خَیر سے پھِر آباد کاریں گے کِسی دِن تہ خُشِیوں کے وہ بیحِساب اوقات لَوٹ آءییں گے جو مَحکوُموں کے سَپنوں کو جَمحوُریَۃ کا نام دِلاءییں گے کِسی دِن تہ خانہ بَدوش رجاء کے نجم ٹِمٹِماءییں گے Jo in jhulasti ummeedon par aab-e-khalaas bankar barsenge Kisi din to falak-e-zulm par woh abr-e-inqilab chhaenge Jo zaalimon ke in kaazib meenaron ko baha le jayenge Kisi din to woh ashk-e-mulazim ek azeem sailaab banenge Jo bekas soonepan ko bikhraakar subah ki zau le ayenge Kisi din to woh ummeeden khaak se uthkar aasmaan ko chhooenge Jo is diyaar-e-khwaar ko daulat-o-khair se phir aabaad karenge Kisi din t

It is an interesting number one short of the one that is held as a gold standard for measures of success and failure, the number that judges everything from someone's sincerity to the contamination in a bar of iron. It is a hungry number, besmirched by an accusation of incompleteness though it is so perfect in form, its twin members so beautifully illustrating its two divisors the first one less, the second one more than that other fabulous number which multiplied by itself yields that magic figure all men yearn for. Perfect and yet always incomplete. Ever hungry, ninety nine. (Exactly 99 words) Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2018

Black tea, a new day dawns. Trees dice the sunlight turning blinding white into playful delight. The soft tinkles of the anklets on your feet: is silver's beauty still in its cold shine? The heart amuses itself in teaching what it never understood. Stained-glass window shadows on the floor paint a fresco: nature also makes chameleons that contrast with her butterflies. Smileys on the screen, this heart enchants itself with your imagined smile. They're sodium chloride, but by what chemistry do tears wash away sorrow? What am I - a body and brain, products of carbon concatenation chemistry hurtling into nothingness. I live on coffee and black depression, neither water nor fire touch now, of my shell what is left to hurt? Few thing delight one as fried maida and petty triumph; my memories have erased you. Published in GloMag April 2019

Yont   brattlin  clood an seelent glen Tweetlin a-lood the ingine skirls this noisome train wi lanely men hame-comin whaur thair lassies birls whit lends thay awe, an whit dets thirls whit ailin mam, whit seekly bairn thair dreams forby the train-smeuk swirls bi new gless tour or auncient cairn thay ken nae sang, thaur herts made airn thair mynds full o the twalmonth tack regairdless o loch, pen or tairn thay anely think o whit thay lack ay but thinkna muckle o it ye an a, we're an aw in it Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2017 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati